In the hummingbird kingdom “The rose of the desert” by Maika Etxarri

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In the hummingbird kingdom

Maybe in the morning nobody loves, no one feels like a thunder in the fullness of the storm. Maybe in the morning nobody will dance like the branches of a tree, or dance with the southern wind. Although nobody dawns with his eyes at dawn, although no one deserves to share your dreams and my dreams in the soul, don’t ever let my sorrows be the immense lake of your life. But let my brightness illuminate every being that wraps your soul viciously torn…
Don’t accept vain pride, nor hatred in their false words. Just sing to your angel that protects your dwelling. You only sing poetry, in your infinite flight at dawn. Northern lights you contemplate with your broken wings, which cling to my wings of libertarian wild butterfly and my soul. To my soul, enraged by deceptions and lies, by loves that are lost in the arrhythmic beat of my dreams. To my soul enraged by loves that forgot and touched lightly the background of your lost soul… of your soul and my soul… And my soul, bound, torn, flees like the wind to its sweet and placid abode…
Flee not to see how you scream, or how you cry in the sad early mornings. Flee to contemplate how you laugh, how you sing to the boat of my soul. And so, you find sweet relief for your early awakening at dawn, in that white vessel of your time and mine…
Never say that you aren’t a libertarian bird, nor that you feel how you’re, at the bottom of your essence, pure and white. Already your son defends you, before so many hurricanes. He defends you before those who don’t want your essence to be free and clear. Free essence, murmur of a calm river, in the kingdom of the little scarlet hummingbird…
Little hummingbird, make the light sweetly transparent, and light the flame of my white candles! Candles extinguished by human frailty, in the six realms of existence of the wheel of samsara. Fatuous flames to burn the attachments, with the firelight burning for your soul. Pigeon soul traveling in time, soul that doesn’t understand the vain promises…
Whispers of words fly like light feathers to the wind. Cold winds of the eternal Himalayas… Silent whispers escape, as soft and sweet dust of comets, in that immense velvet satin of twinkling stars. Words, sweet words, like threads of comets, sew your hopeful ray to the celestial paradises, in the ancestral bonfire of your mind…
Mother, never allow anyone to offend you or steal your beautiful attributes of wild gazelle. Don’t allow anyone to poke at your wounds, or take away the deep roots of your most heartfelt story. History of an Essene heart, spectator of the night of enchantment, in the Judean desert. Don’t allow those deep roots of your blood and your most sacred sap to be lost. Don’t let them hurt your divine life as a libertarian princess. Life of deep mystical roots, of ascetic tunes in the path of white clouds… Mother, don’t be frightened in the depths of the night, it’s only a slight thunder that roars in the storm, unleashing its rage in your calm…
It’s your essence mother, which overflows with joy, which illuminates the thousand heavenly paradises of my life with colors. It’s your golden joy that lights my rainbow solidarity in my peaceful sea of silver. It’s your essence, with tuberose and roses, which perfumes my rooms in my golden khayma. It’s your essence, which transmutes the magic of my desert into the beautiful rose of Jericho…
And your essence of lilies dresses in spring the songs of the Essene people.
That same essence, jewel of the lotus, caresses your memory sweetly lost, in those hidden labyrinths of your life and my life. Caress the leaves of that tree, which gently sway in your wavy hair. Gallop with your anima’s horse in my sweet golden dreams…
Don’t let me abandon my belief in the existence of Nirvana, even if my insides die, although my deep wounds hurt in the constant rebirth of samsara. Don’t allow my memory to be forgotten, nor my beautiful love story in the country of quartz bowls. That beautiful story that passes between whispers of words, between magical dances of white djellabas. That hidden history of my life, that fresh hope that tears the weak consciences…
Only you and I, mother, know the existence of this mythical paradise in Shambhala. Shambhala, land of permanent happiness, land of sweet human immortality… Immortality between fresh winds of magical aromas, between mirages of lost horizons…
On the roof of the world, among the shadows of old monasteries, pure hearts open their petals in flower. They’re lotus flowers in the awakening to light. They’re pure hearts, immortal loves that dance with harmonies of Tibetan bowls. Immortal hearts that love each other, between aromas of oriental incense, smell of wood and jasmine from Nepal. Immortal love, beautiful word that forever seals the consciences of the material world…
Mantras of mythical lands, of lands lost in the snowy peaks of the eternal Himalayas. Mantras, beautiful sounds of magic spells that alleviate your existence and your samsara. Between purifying sounds, sweet and tender warm looks embrace each other. They embrace passionately, in the kingdom of the little scarlet hummingbird…
Looks that catch pure hearts, with magical networks of dreams broken at dawn. Gentle dreams, reflections of the water of a calm river. Sweet dreams, in the mirror of your conscious sunrise. Vivid dreams, memories of previous lives, escape from your mind in the path of white clouds. Path of narrow paths and iridescent white lights. Dry roads, silver paths to the Qumran monastery. Path of pure hearts beating rhythmically, in the magic dance of the bonfire of love. Silver paths of Essene hearts, of free spirits on the shores of the Dead Sea…
Memories and mirages float over the golden dunes. Dreamcatcher of love and oblivion remove my fragile senses in the nights of my desert. Nights of mysteries and sleepless nights, blue nights of a strange solitude in the desert… Velvet satin nights in the Judean desert… And your fight isn’t forgotten and your name gives me strength in the storm…
My destiny is your destiny, my word is your word. My home is your home and your home is my soul… Free essence, murmur of a calm river, in the kingdom of the little scarlet hummingbird. Kingdom of Shambhala, in the mythical lands of the distant Himalayas… The compassionate kingdom of Shambhala rears in the immortal hearts of your people. Essene people awaken to the light, in the kingdom of the little scarlet hummingbird! Essene people, awake with the reddish amber dawn!.. Compassionate people, awake in the path of the white clouds of Shambhala!…

Maika Etxarri
Copyright poetry and photography

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Soy un espíritu libre poeta, enarbolando la bandera de la paz y libertad, en este universo existencial. Vivo en el eterno presente, aquí y ahora, bajo el poder del amor, sin la incertidumbre del mañana, sin la esclavitud del nuevo orden establecido mundial. Maika Etxarri Escritora, poeta, blogger y fotógrafa Autora del libro: La rosa del desierto
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